


Thou, Mother of my Mortal Part

by Schemilix



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Canon Compliant, Extensive references to British wildlife, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Post-Game, Suggestions of Eva's unpleasant death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schemilix/pseuds/Schemilix
Summary: Birthdays are a time to reconnect with family.





	Thou, Mother of my Mortal Part

September 22nd. Virgo-Libra cusp if you care about that kind of thing. This year, the Summer has yet to get the memo about winding down for the year. The sun is hot, tourists and locals alike are still swimming in the ocean to get the most out of the season before it comes to a close.

Still, there’s that sense of decline. That subtle and lingering sweetness of something pleasant waning. For most people. Dante, who burns like a baby, isn’t too sad to see the back of the sunlight. As much as he enjoys the excuse to stay indoors and only emerge to kick demon ass, the troglodyte lifestyle always starts to get him antsy around now.

Doubly so his ghostly peach of a big brother. Having spent the last few decades as far from the sun as it’s possible to get, Vergil is responding to the glorious weather like a snail craves salt. It’s given them time to talk which, naturally, they haven’t used at all. On overcast days Vergil vanishes without a word; anything to avoid the lingering spectre of that nightmare. Yes, the heart-to-heart.

 

But now, the sun is out. It’s September 22nd. The twins turn 44 today, and there’s no getting around it. The two men have been restive for the past week. Nero’s visits have ended with his head bitten squarely off.

Today, Dante sets a birthday card from Patty on his desk with a wry smile. No parties this time, at least. It sits next to the faded old photograph of Eva, along with an IOU for pizza from Lady. By request, nobody in Dante’s immediate friendship group wasted trees. But it’s nice to hear from the girl – no, the _young lady_.

“I thought you said no cards.”

Dante jumps a mile. Do Vergil’s feet even touch the floor when he walks?

“I did. But hey, nobody listens to ol’ Dante these days.”

Vergil walks over to the desk and inspects the card with an impassive expression.

“That’s because Dante has nothing to say,” he says. His eyes find the portrait. Quickly, they flick away to something else.

Dante spreads his arms in an exaggerated display of wounded dignity.

“It’s my birthday. You can be a jackass the other 364 days.”

“It’s also my birthday. That means I get to pick on you as much as I want.”

The two watch each other a moment, then Vergil cracks a smile. It quickly fades when he sees the portrait again. It’s clearly weighing on him. Like a tongue getting cut on a broken tooth, but unable to stop worrying at it.

“Forty-four huh?” Dante says, to break the tension. He picks up the little frame and looks at his mother’s face. The picture’s been sat there so long, he doesn’t really look at it any more. Huh. V really had resembled her. Guess that checks out. Dante sets the portrait back down gently.

Vergil says, “In some cultures, four is the number of death.”

Dante makes a face at him. Was he always this morbid, or was it lived experience? Sometimes Dante struggles to reconcile this joyless hunter with the little boy with a stutter that made him go red with embarrassment.

Vergil moves a magazine about two degrees clockwise to align it better. As soon as he turns his attention elsewhere, Dante shifts it back, then leans his hip into the desk with his arms folded over his chest.

“I think we oughta at least attempt a celebration,” he says.

“You’re sober these days, aren’t you Dante?”

Ah. That barrel of worms. “Yup.”

“Pity. I was thinking of getting wasted for the first time in thirty years.”

“You were fourteen thirty years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. I thought you were square. Anyway you haven’t seen me after six cans of red bull, man. It’s one and the same.”

Vergil says, “I don’t know what that is,” rather defensively. He waves a hand as if to brush off the notion.

“Right. Hell. One big rock to live under. Look, it’s just a way to die slowly and waste energy that won’t have Lady up my ass for bad habits.”

It’s only because she cares. That, and the amount of booze it takes to get a son of Sparda’s regenerating liver to give up the ghost and let him pass out is pretty alarming. After a moment of the silence, Vergil sits on the opposite end of the desk from Dante, one foot still bearing most of his weight on the floor.

Old age is making Dante soft. He’s thinking how it should’ve been this way 25 years ago. Trading barbs in the Devil May Cry office and loving each other anyway, right? Neither of them getting their shit kicked in by the Emperor of Hell and made into… Dante still doesn’t actually know. Vergil avoids the topic with particularly vicious words.

He’d forgotten how much those could sting, and that’s coming from a man who got a sword buried in his chest at the Sparda family reunion at least twice.

On Mallet Island, what was left of Vergil had been unrecognisable. Nero’s hazy memories of getting his arm popped off like a five year old’s action figure confirmed that. Literally falling apart, and that was just on the outside.

Still. Better late than never.

“You’re ruminating,” Vergil drawls, and looks at his brother from the side of his eyes. Dante lifts a shoulder in response. No use denying it.

“We should go see her, Verge -”  
“- stop calling me that -”  
“ - we can use Yamato. Let’s just go.”

In unison, the two twist around to look at the portrait between them. Drained of colour but still lively, with that knowing smile. They’re much older now than she’ll ever have the chance to be. Their experiences outweigh hers, and yet their spirits still look to hers for guidance. Her own birthday would have been months ago, but they both owe her this day, after all. The day she gave them life.

Vergil doesn’t meet Dante’s eyes. He sweeps from the room. Dante sits a moment, drumming his fingernails on the desk.

His brother is tying Yamato in fabric to hide what it is when Dante comes to lean on the doorway to his room.

“There’s a florist not far from here,” Vergil says, stiffly, talking to the wrapped sheath. “I want to take her dahlias.”

There. Now the sword is going to look like what people want to see. Probably a practice weapon, or maybe an umbrella. Getting arrested for openly carrying an ancient side-arm around would put a dampener on even this miserable excuse for a birthday, but portals to the other side of the Atlantic don’t open themselves.

Dante jerks his head to gesture for Vergil to follow, then slopes off with his hands in his jacket pockets.

* * *

 

_Eva had said names of flowers with a special delight, like she were putting chocolates in her mouth._

_“This is a hibiscus. It’s easy to recognise from the shape of its petals. This one’s marigold.”_

_“Here, if you pinch a snapdragon just so… it bites your nose! Got you.”_

_“Sunflowers! Your father liked those the most. The fluffy part is actually hundreds of tiny flowers.”_

_“And this is a chrysanthemum. Yes. Chrys-an-the-mum. If you think it’s hard to say, you should see how it’s spelled.”_

_“These are dahlias. They’re my favourite.”_

_Vergil then loudly declared his choice from the other side of the glasshouse,_

_“I like this. This one, this … the... argh!”_

_Or at least, he tried to. His mother turned around and tilted her head towards him._

_“Try not to wrestle with it, dear. Why don’t you start over?”_

_“I.. uh. I like this flower best.”_

_Eva smiled then, and said, “Well done!”_

_And Dante shouted, “That’s not even a flower, pea-brain!”_

_“Get lost!” Vergil shot back. Now he wasn’t stuttering at all!_

_“Boys! That is a venus fly trap, though. Are you sure you like it? It eats things,” Eva had said, with a sly tone. After that, Dante heartily agreed that it was the best plant there, flower or not._

* * *

 

Vergil steps out onto the dry old grass just after his brother. Yamato is once again bare in his hand. The latitude here is a little further North, and steep, puffy clouds crawl across the sun periodically. It’s the type of weather to make the heavens deserve the name. Towering structures of ice and moisture make the sky seem even further away than usual, make the trees and the ruined city below look like an exquisitely detailed model.

The hill the two are standing on, it seems lonely. Like a perch under the weight of those clouds, the mound sits, scoured by the wind, remote from the city. An old veteran of an alder shields the pair from the wind and intermittent sun. Native to this island, and stubbornly resistant to the elements. It seems like it’s been a dry September, where the wind and sun have pulled all the moisture from the ground on this exposed little outcrop. Dante’s feet cause puffs of grey-brown, ashy dust to blossom up.

It had been a man named ‘Tony’ who put this marker here, under the dark, round leaves of what they’d called the sitting-tree.

“I put the stone here,” Dante says, after a long time of rustling leaves and far-off seagulls mewling. “She uh, wanted to be put to rest in the roots. Become part of this tree and all. When I was a kid, the thought was creepy. I think I get it now.”  
“Mother wanted to shade us and our own children like it had her. I remember.”

Vergil is staring at the grave marker, motionless apart from the wind pulling at his hair and jacket. Time hasn’t had long to wear the memorial down. It’s still smooth, and the letters of her name, the years of her birth and death, are clear. Vergil inhales sharply, and Dante rubs the back of his neck. He swallows visibly.

“About that,” he begins, but Vergil is already reading it aloud, his voice sounding strained,

“Thou… Mother of my Mortal part.”

“Yeah. Look, I’m crap at sentiment. I was so sure you were dead but… it felt like if I put something here, saying you’d died, that’d make it more true.”

“So, this epitaph...”

“I tried to think what you’d have put. If you got the chance. You loved that book. It felt right.”

Vergil gently pinches a petal of the bouquet in his hands between finger and thumb, to feel its softness. He clears his throat.

“Whate’er is Born of Mortal Birth, must be consumed with the Earth,” he recites. Then he watches as Dante rests the posy against the headstone and sits down with one leg drawn up. It’s casual. He’s been here before.

“Good news, Mom,” he begins. “Vergil’s here, in case you couldn’t tell. I got him! We’re a family again. There’s news on that but, hey, that’s not my call.”

Dante glances with a quiet humour at Vergil, who remains standing, as he says that.

“I guess you don’t need to worry. He got out okay. Just like me. Things haven’t been easy, but, they were never going to be, were they? You and the old man knew that from the start.

“I should probably come more often. Don’t really have an excuse any more. I’m sorry about the… both of us stabbing ourselves in the living room, too. Pretty bad table manners.”

After that, Dante peters into silence. He notes that Vergil hasn’t budged an inch the whole time he was talking. His gaze is lingering on a heroic little dog violet growing from the scrubby grass at the tree’s base. Vergil might even look bored, except his grip on the stems of the dahlias is white-knuckled.

“Hey. Sit down. Say a few words.”

Vergil responds with a soft growl and then, “Dante. I came to pay my respects. She’s not here. Even her body cannot be here.”

Dante exhales slowly.

“Vergil. Can you just – for once in your damn – just please? Come on. You need this.”

For a long moment he stubbornly looks up into his brother’s face. He’d meet his eyes, but as always, Vergil’s having trouble looking back at him. It’s always been that he never looks him in the eye unless they’re fighting. Then it’s some kind of macho, apex predator power move or something.

Either he agrees, or even Vergil isn’t willing to pick a fight on his mother’s grave. Whichever way, Vergil kneels down and settles with his weight on his ankles, setting his flowers beside his brother’s, and Yamato carefully to one side.

His hands rest loosely on his thighs, and he remains looking down for a long time. Dante takes a moment to brush a bit of moss off of the cool stone.

“I spent decades wondering what I’d say if I saw her again. Now I’m empty.”

Dante leans back on his hands. From this angle, the sky looks even huger. A man who can turn into a wing’ed hellbeast and fly shouldn’t get vertigo, but it is pretty damn high up there.

He says, lightly, “Don’t tell me. Tell her.”

The glare is palpable. Dante ignores it, then turns around because he swears he just saw a red kite. Maybe a buzzard? Kestrels were the little guys, right? Merlins? Damn. Mom would know.

He hears Vergil speak with unusual hesitation,

“Mother. I think I’ll start with something you’d want to know. You have a grandson. I haven’t had long to get to know him, but, he seems to be brave, and kind. Those were always qualities you valued, didn’t you?”

No wisecracks from Dante. The bird is gone now. He rubs a knuckle under his jaw to relieve an itch and turns his attention to the dahlias.

“I know he’d have loved you. Everyone did, mother. I’ll bring him here soon.”

From the corner of his eye Dante sees Vergil’s fingers toying with his necklace. Nero had noticed how often Vergil strayed to an amulet that was no longer there. His time with Kyrie had made him remarkably perceptive in these things, and he’d awkwardly, almost aggressively, given his father a new one as a gift.

Since we’re family, he’d said, like a challenge. Dante could’ve laughed at how stunned Vergil looked. But, he’d worn it ever since. It was a start.

"I doubted your faith in me. I let it make me become something I'm not. ... I'm sorry."

Dante watches as Vergil rests a hand on the headstone for a long moment, with his head bowed. He reaches out and puts his hand on his older brother’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze. For once, Vergil makes no attempt to shrug off the contact.

“You good?” he asks. Vergil stands up, leaning his head black and blinking rapidly, before he replies.

“Thank you. Dante.”

Dante adjusts his jacket and says nothing to that. Hey, the kite’s back.

“Back then. You talked about Sparda’s soul. But it was her, wasn’t it? It was always her,” Vergil says quietly. Dante goes to give him another comforting pat, but this time, Vergil twists away.

He lets his hand drop back to his side and instead says, through a toothy grin, “Don’t beat yourself up. She always knew you were an idiot. You’re not gonna disappoint her.”

“I should stab you for that. But not here,” Vergil says, bending down to pick up Yamato. Dante gets to his feet with a huff and quips,

“Aww. Maybe later.”

“Count on it. You could always do with a good stabbing.”

“I actually have to agree. Who knew being half human and half demonic pin-cushion had so many perks?”

For a moment, Vergil stiffens. Dante’s about ready to catch hands when Vergil drops his head and starts laughing. It's more of an uncontrollable fit of wheezing than an actual laugh. He covers his face with one hand and needs to lean against the tree for support until he gains his composure. Still chuckling, he unsheathes his sword to take them back home.

“You’re such an idiot,” he says.

“Takes one to know one,” Dante grumbles. He spreads his arms wide. “Happy birthday!”

Before he cuts open the portal, Vergil looks over his shoulder at the flowers, the headstone, and the little dog violet struggling through.

“Yes. Happy birthday indeed. And by the way – that’s a red kite. You can tell by the tail.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a [wonderful artwork on Tumblr](https://emy-san.tumblr.com/post/184820627839/flowers-for-mom-more-hello-mom). Happy International Mother's Day for those across the pond!
> 
> I enjoyed writing this fic. Referencing the wildlife of my own childhood felt nice. Red Grave appears to be based on an English city so I ran with it.  
> I feel that Vergil struggles with articulating his thoughts and emotions. It's part of why he has a secret love for poetry, since it puts into words things he experiences, indirectly.


End file.
